


Sunflowers in a Beer Can

by adadshi



Category: Clone High
Genre: (just a mention) - Freeform, Assassination, Confessions, Hallucinations, Kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Painting, Portraits, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27235732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adadshi/pseuds/adadshi
Summary: As all the students left the football field, Van Gogh saw someone pushing against the flow of the crowd towards him. JFK pulled him aside and declared, “Van Gogh, I want you to paint my student body presidential portrait. Tonight.”And who was Van Gogh to say no to the president?-Van Gogh and JFK discover that they're not so different after all.
Relationships: JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 134





	Sunflowers in a Beer Can

**Author's Note:**

> this is dumb but I just wanted to write about how JFK and Van Gogh might handle the pressure of living up to being clone sons of such famous historical figures. and I wanted to have them kiss,, enjoy lol 
> 
> specific warnings: Van Gogh talks about mental illness and cutting off his ear. he also has a hallucination of JFK getting shot.

Van Gogh wasn’t exactly sure how he’d ended up here. Standing before JFK’s bedroom door. His foster dads had welcomed him inside and let him head up the stairs. They hadn’t recognised him but their eyes lit up in recognition when Van Gogh introduced himself. JFK had mentioned him before? The thought made his cheeks redden. 

He raised his hand to the door but, before he could knock, it swung open. JFK was standing in the doorframe with dishevelled hair and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. JFK always came to school with his shoes shined, teeth sparkling and without a single hair on his head out of place. He’d managed to maintain this look every day from freshman to senior year. Seeing him like this was somewhat thrilling.

“Ah, you made it.” JFK moved to the side, allowing Van Gogh in, “You, er, got your paints? You can set ‘em down on the desk.”

JFK’s room was pretty tidy but the desk was covered in books and paper. Van Gogh collected some papers and neatly stacked them up. He couldn’t help himself from reading what was written on the top sheet. It looked like an early draft of a college essay. 

“Harvard?” He guessed and turned back to JFK. He nodded in confirmation. It was to be expected- JFK had recently become dedicated to following in his clone father’s footsteps. 

“I’m sure they’ll find student body president impressive.” 

Earlier today all of Clone High had gathered on the football field to receive the results of this year’s student body president elections. JFK vs. Cleopatra. The election was one for the ages. JFK had recycled the old “ask not what your student body president can do for you, ask what you can do to your student body president’s body” but had some pretty solid ideas. The election was tight and JFK had won so narrowly it was painful. Van Gogh had never seen him so relieved before the moment his name was called and the crowds erupted into applause. He’d bounced up onto the stage and gave his acceptance speech. His delivery was unusually shaky- there was more stuttering than usual. 

As all the students left the football field, Van Gogh saw someone pushing against the flow of the crowd towards him. JFK pulled him aside and declared, “Van Gogh, I want you to paint my student body presidential portrait. Tonight.”

And who was Van Gogh to say no to the president?

Van Gogh placed his bag down on the empty desk space. It contained his tubes of oil paint, brushes and palette. He rarely used the palette, instead choosing to squirt the paint right onto the canvas the way his clone father did. Following the original Van Gogh’s style felt natural to him.

“Now, I’m thinking,” JFK started, “I, er uh, stand here and you paint me like the original.”

JFK stood in an empty corner of his bedroom with his head dipped and arms crossed over his chest. It would be a direct replica of the original JFK’s presidential portrait. Van Gogh watched as JFK fidgeted, trying to get the pose as accurate as possible. 

“That’s what you want?” 

JFK nodded. “Canvas is in the closet.”

JFK had been generous enough to buy a canvas himself for this project. While trying to find the closet, Van Gogh noticed how the room was set up. Yellow candles cast a soft glow on their surroundings and there was a beer can being used as a vase for flowers. Sunflowers.

“Er, I wasn’t sure how to prepare for someone who isn’t a broad.” JFK sounded shy, “Is it alright?”

Van Gogh nodded. “It’s nice.”

He found the closet and let out an impressed breath at the sheer size of the canvas inside. He definitely wouldn’t have been able to drag it to JFK’s place. He struggled even to get it out of the closet.

“Let me help, short fry.” JFK lifted it with ease to the centre of the room and called back, “Can you manage the stand?”

With further rummaging in the closet, Van Gogh found what he was looking for. He struggled but managed to drag it over to the canvas. “It’s called an easel.” 

“Easel shmeesel, let’s get started.” 

They fell into silence. JFK returned to his pose and Van Gogh started to sketch. He only occasionally looked at his model for reference, instead letting his pencil dance freely across the tight canvas. Like his clone father, he was a quick worker.

“Are you, er, going to art school?” JFK asked while Van Gogh prepared his paints.

“No.” Van Gogh didn’t even want to think about attending college. His clone father didn’t go to art school so neither would he. If he thought too much about the experience he’d become too obsessed. College was where everyone met like-minded individuals that became lifelong friends. He imagined walking around campus during fall- crisp orange leaves underfoot, the sky a pale white and incredible architectural buildings everywhere he looked. But if his clone father did not have this experience then neither would he. “It- just doesn’t seem like the path for me.”

JFK hummed absentmindedly. Standing in the pose so closely linked to the original JFK made Van Gogh think of him differently. By no means was he usually shy to snap at bullies or talk to the popular kids, but JFK was slowly easing into the mould of his clone father in a way that made Van Gogh feel nervous. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 35th president of the United States and the king of Camelot. He always had that charming smile about him and the luxurious laziness of a man who knew he was untouchable. It was attractive, anyone would admit it. 

While he started to head in with his paints, Van Gogh’s eyes moved away from the canvas to look at his subject. His head was still bowed. Van Gogh could see JFK in a yellow and blue world: sailing through calm waters, holding his children lovingly on Christmas morning, standing behind a podium and promising himself to the country, waving to citizens while travelling with the motorcade.

Then came the bullet.

Van Gogh’s brush slipped and a yellow streak splashed across the canvas.

“I- your head.” Van Gogh gasped. He’d always had a vivid imagination, seeing things other people usually wouldn’t. Like now- blue and yellow was splattered onto the wall behind JFK. He rapidly pushed the easel away and tugged on JFK’s arm, trying to pull him down so he could inspect his head.

“Your head, your head.” Van Gogh ran his shaking hands through the thick brown head of hair, feeling for any wetness. But then there were big hands on his wrists, pulling him away.

“Calm it, carrot. I’m just fine.” Van Gogh blinked and suddenly he was staring into JFK’s eyes. “What about you? What, er, are you seeing?”

All of a sudden he felt stupid. It was just another hallucination. Stupid genes. Stupid inherited mental illness. He watched as JFK went to inspect the canvas and saw the disappointment in his eyes. Van Gogh hid his face in his hands.

“This always happens.” He said, “I-I do something good, I have a nice time and my _stupid_ brain messes it up. Every single time. I wish I wasn’t his son, I wish I was someone else.”

He caught sight of JFK’s dumbfounded expression and whined, “I’m sorry, JFK. I’m going to leave.”

But he was caught before he reached the door.

“Not in this state. Lie down, Vincent. I, er uh, will get you some water. You’re lookin’ pale.”

Van Gogh sheepishly laid down on the bed and amidst all the thoughts of embarrassment and self-hatred in his mind, a new notion spawned: _I am probably the first boy he’s had in his bed._ Van Gogh decided he would go all the way (what else did he have to lose here?) and got underneath the sheets. The vanilla scent of Eight & Bob calmed him. He shut his eyes and, when he opened them again, JFK was back. He sat on the side of the bed and looked at Van Gogh nervously. He had a glass of water in his hands.

“Van G- Vincent. I, er uh, didn’t know you felt that way about your clone dad.” 

“It’s stupid, I know. I inherited his skill but also his illnesses.” Van Gogh had no idea why he was talking about this with JFK of all people. _John Fitzgerald Kennedy_. Their stories couldn’t be further apart.

“I saw you- but it was like the- the, you know. _Bang_.” 

JFK’s eyes widened and his lips moved into an _oh_ shape. Van Gogh felt terrible for bringing it up and hid his face in the sheets, focusing on the sweet smell of Eight & Bob.

“You know,” JFK said quietly, “I hope the assassination happens.” 

Van Gogh peered up at him from behind the sheets. What was he talking about? The world changed when the original JFK died, all of America mourned. Who would wish for that to happen again and why was it the clone of JFK?

JFK kept his focus on the glass of water while he talked, stirring it slightly, “I, er uh, didn’t always feel the pressure to follow in my clone dad’s footsteps. It took a while for it to sink in that I’m actually his son. I’ve got the same brain and mind and soul-“

Van Gogh wanted to tell him that those are really all the same thing, but he’d never seen JFK his vulnerable before. His usual snark would only ruin the moment.

“-and so I’m destined for the same stuff he did, right? Harvard and presidency and then _bang!_ ” He shot a weak finger gun at himself. Van Gogh suddenly realised he was panting. His eyes were wide and frantic.

“You… we’re the same.” He whispered. He sat up in the bed and was grateful that for once they could see each other eye-to-eye. JFK had lovely greenish eyes. They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out moment, before JFK turned his head away shyly.

“I’m sticking to his path because I don’t know what will happen if I don’t.” 

Van Gogh felt his stomach sink.

“How can you be okay with that?” He asked, sounding more desperate than angry, “I-I live in _fear_ because of my clone father’s destiny. I avoid revolvers and knives because I can’t trust myself to go near them. There’s- always the urge.” 

JFK looked at him sadly. “Oh, Vincent, no.” 

Van Gogh slowly unravelled the bandage around his head. With each turn, he saw how JFK’s eyes saddened. Until he was laid bare before him. He was revealing everything to the jock. JFK gently reached out and touched the side of his face, feeling no ear.

“I cut it off.” Van Gogh admitted, “I was having an episode and I was so _angry_ so I just- hacked it off.” 

“What did your foster parents say?”

“They were sad. No one thought that I would inherit his mental illnesses.” Van Gogh always thought that was a stupid hope. One he had bought into for many years. When he cut off his ear, he surrendered himself to be a Van Gogh. He was strapped onto a rollercoaster cart, screaming, but he couldn’t get off. 

“Don’t submit to everyone’s expectations.” He said softly, “You don’t have to be like him.”

They were both very still for a moment. JFK looked nervous and Van Gogh wondered if he’d overstepped a line. But then JFK leant in, eyes closed, and Van Gogh knew he regretted nothing. 

The kiss was so powerful Van Gogh fell back against the bed. He’d never kissed anyone before and thought it sounded overrated, but he understood now. JFK’s mouth was warm and uncertain. _I am probably the first boy he’s kissed_. The privilege and exclusivity made warmth pool in Van Gogh’s stomach.

JFK slowly pulled his lips away in a tantalising fashion. He smiled at Van Gogh nervously.

“How’s that for not submitting to expectations?” He asked. His tone was flirtatious but then he asked again, sounding more serious. “For real, how is it? Is this okay?”

“As long as I can call you John.” 

He grinned and nodded. They dissolved into another kiss.

Together Vincent and John stood at the blemished canvas with critical eyes. 

“You can paint over it, right?” 

“But I’ll lose the sketch.” 

John shrugged, “I don’t mind. It wasn’t the right pose anyway.”

He carefully packed the canvas and easel into the closet and Vincent collected his things. They’d get the student body presidential portrait done at some point. As far as he was concerned, tonight they’d made excellent progress. It was important for an artist to know his muse. 

John walked him to the front door. His foster dads were sitting on the couch, watching Will & Grace. It was raining outside so John gave Vincent an umbrella.

“You can give it back to me on Monday,” John said. He scratched the back of his neck and looked away, “Maybe I, er uh, can come sit with you in the art room?”

“Sure.” He tugged John down so he could kiss his cheek, “I’ll see you Monday.”

Vincent left the house with a spring in his step. His bandage laid forgotten in the bedroom. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are very much appreciated! pls leave any constructive criticism


End file.
